


The Masks Are Necessary

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [50]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confusion, Hide and Seek, Hiding, Hiding in Plain Sight, Jim from IT, Love Confessions, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Post-His Last Vow, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Seattle, illusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:04:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2528282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Moriarty?" He asks, a perfect look of confusion on his face, "I don't know a… 'Moriarty…'" He breathed softly, then looked him up and down lasciviously, "But if you'd like, you can come inside and <i>interrogate</i> me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Masks Are Necessary

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #45: Illusion

The scene looked sinfully normal. 

Jim Zucco, 35, 5'8", wearing a crumpled t-shirt and sweats, was scowling at a computer screen. But he had good reason; he worked in web design, and a few particularly pushy clients were trying to negotiate services on a fixed price. He sat in an armchair, contents half-empty teacup growing cold on the coffee table. It was a dreary day, but that was to be expected; he'd moved to Seattle some months back. 

This would've all been fine and ordinary, except there was no such person as "Jim Zucco." Adding onto that, his work in web design was merely a cover. And the fact his more difficult customers tended to end up dead probably contributed to the reason he was currently in hiding. 

More than two years ago, he'd faked his death. He'd been a consulting criminal by the name of Moriarty. But the world thought Moriarty was dead, and that's how it needed to stay. 

Ruffling his hair, he took a sip of his near-icy tea, wincing at it — had he really been working that long? Standing up, he brushed out some of his wrinkles and whatever crumbs might've accumulated from lunch. Sighing, he took the saucer and brought it to the kitchen, beginning to load the dishwasher. 

A knock at the door cut through the rushing water. Odd. He didn't usually have visitors. He hadn't ordered any packages. No reason he could think of that someone might visit. As a relatively unsuspecting man, he didn't bother checking the peephole. However, it might've suited him well, as his visitor was a man he'd met some years before, declared interest for, and hadn't seen since. 

"Sherlock Holmes!" Jim all but _shouts_ in surprise, jaw dropping, "I didn't think I'd be seeing _you_ again _._ _Here_ , of all places!" 

"Cut the crap, Moriarty." Sherlock rolls his eyes, "I don't have time for your games." 

"Moriarty?" He asks, a perfect look of confusion on his face, "I don't know a… 'Moriarty…'" He breathed softly, then looked him up and down lasciviously, "But if you'd like, you can come inside and _interrogate_ me."  

Oh. So _that's_ how it was going to go. Alright. Sherlock nodded, Jim stepping back as the detective walked past him. 

"Tea?" The shorter man asks, sliding forward into the small kitchen. 

"No thank you, I'm not interested in diversion."

"Well… _I'm_ going to have some." He clarifies, a bit nervously, "And I'll boil enough water in case you change your mind."

"Fine, fine. By all means, put tea in front of me." Sherlock rolls his eyes, stepping into his living room. Quaint. Standard sofa and chair set, "May I?" He asked, eyes scanning over the chair it seemed Jim most used.

" _Please_!" He nearly whined.

Sherlock sits, feet firmly planted on the ground. He narrows his eyes as he looked out the sliding glass doors that functioned as windows, leading to a balcony. There was a single dracaena sitting out there, getting its required watering from the sky. 

"Alright! Tea." Jim chirps, too cheerily for the day, setting two mugs on the coffee table, one in front of Sherlock, the other in front of the chair across from him. Much to Sherlock's annoyance, Jim shows no recognition that he's taken what was apparently _his_ chair, sitting happy opposite from him, "Now…" He hums, picking up the mug and blowing some steam off it, a slight blush in his cheeks that _could_ be from the heat. But it wasn't, "What did you want to ask me?"

"Why are you here?" Sherlock wastes no time, ignoring the cup, tenting his hands under his chin, "And don't be boring." 

"Well, shortly after Molly dumped me — " 

"Boring. I thought I told you _not_ to bore me?" 

"It's part of the story!" Jim protests, but moves on rather quickly, "Well because of… _that_ … I decided I couldn't work at Bart's anymore… so awkward." The mask slipped a little, eyes flashing _you would know nothing about that, my little virgin_ , "So I decided… why not just leave altogether? Yada, yada, yada, got offered a job here in drizzly Seattle."

"Have you liked living in the colonies?"

"… it's a bit backward. But social progression here in Washington state isn't that bad."

"But it's not London." 

"It's _lovely_."

Jim was so rapid fire, answering just as the questions were asked, almost before the detective was done talking. Almost as if he knew what he was going to say. Perhaps he did. "How long do we have to play this game of pretend?" Sherlock sighs.

Jim smirks, dropping his disguise, "Who's to say I'm _playing_ anymore?"

"What? Is this just who you are now?"

"Of course not… but I'm not exactly _Moriarty_ , either." 

"I find that exceedingly hard to believe." 

"What _would_ you believe, Mr. Holmes?" 

"The truth, obviously."

"It's the truth for poor Jim Zucco… that's _exactly_ what he remembers." Jim shrugs. Whatever mind palace equivalent he had — closer to a super computer with millions of files — stored that personality, creating for him an alibi so that his world made sense, "As for _Moriarty_ … he died on that rooftop."

"I want to speak to _him_." 

"Unfortunately… what's dead cannot be brought back, and I mean that in a very real way." He sighs, "All the pieces of _Moriarty_ are here, the information he had, but he simply doesn't exist." Moriarty was never terribly stable anyway — just the persona that stuck around the longest, more than likely attributable to his legend, "In fact, towards the end there, it started feeling more and more like an _act_ …" 

"Ah… so what I saw wasn't real."

"Nothing so simple…" He huffed, "Some of it was false, yes. But there were moments, just _tiny glimpses_ of the truth buried in the shrouds." 

Sherlock's mouth went dry, "… your anguish." 

Jim gave a very grave nod. 

"Couldn't keep up with the escalation." 

Another nod.

"… your infatuation with me?"

Jim snorts.

"Wrong?" 

"Only a tad." He smirks, "If only that 'infatuation' is a piss-poor word for how I feel about you." 

"Alright… what word would _you_ use?" 

"No, no, darling." The Irishman shook his head slowly, smile shining against the damp sky, "I don't give you answers. Just the riddles."

Sherlock scowls, _You know I hate riddles_. 

"Oh, I know. Trust me, I know. But it's not something I can change."

"Something _Moriarty_ left for you, then? A love of puzzles?"

"Again, _close_ …" He snickers, "A love of _annoying_ you, my dear."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, throwing his head back, "Of course." He mutters. 

"And love of _you_ , of course." 

"Oh great." Sherlock threw his hands up, "I traveled across an ocean and a continent to be _mocked_."

"I'm serious!" Jim teases, but there was something lurking just beneath his tone that made Sherlock question his lighthearted jest.

"You are, aren't you?" 

Jim got up, walking over to stand over the detective, hands on either armrest, leaning down, "Of course." He picked up his legs, sitting in Sherlock's lap, tucking them over the arm, hands folding behind Sherlock's neck, "I _love_ you, Sherlock Holmes." 

"And what am I supposed to do with this information?"

"Reciprocation would certainly be nice."

"My appreciation of you is purely intellectual." 

"Mmm… fair enough. For now." 

Sherlock quirks a brow, "For now… but what do we do in the meantime?" 

"You could stay here…" Jim nuzzled into his neck, "With _me_." 

"What would you have me do?" He sighed, but the idea appealed to him on several levels. It'd take years to properly understand Jim Moriarty, much less his many, many facets that he flips between. But he had to at least put up a show, "Kill Sherlock Holmes — in a sense — and change my name to Kenneth?"

"Doesn't need to be 'Kenneth…'" Jim kisses his pulse point softly, the villain in him still instinctively honing in on weak spots, "Besides, honey… if there is no 'Moriarty,' there is no 'Sherlock Holmes' anyway." He says, matter-of-factly, yet with such conviction, Sherlock is caught off-guard. So much so that he cannot find an argument, if ever there was one. 

Instead, he brings his arms up, embracing the fake Englishman. 

 


End file.
